As usual, time slipped away from me. Logan texted earlier that morning confirming our plans and asking if I needed help with Dad’s collection of vinyl, but I told him I was fine and that I’d catch up with him later.
“Actually . . . really good.” I hooked up his record player and an old banged-up speaker, then danced in circles among the dust and memories, jamming out the way we used to when he was still around. “It was more therapeutic than I expected.”
He smiles, and I toe off my shoes, following him into the kitchen. I spot the tall studio lights he’s set up for later. I decided to go with a pair of black leggings and a fitted white tee to ensure that he can easily reference my figure later, when he starts painting. I skipped the bra in case he’s planning on painting nudes. Depending on the poses he has in mind, I don’t want it to impact the natural human form. At least, that’s the professional justification I’m going with. I posed nude in art school for the extra cash, it’s no big deal.
Padding around the granite island, I open the fridge for something to drink.
“Ooh, you got one of the barrel-aged stouts from Citra?” The brewery only made a limited batch, and it’s sold out everywhere. I’ve been dying to get my hands on one.
“All yours,” he replies, dumping out the signature crispy tater tots onto the plates. “I had one yesterday. They’re pretty good.”
“Rain check. I’m not ready to jump into something that heavy. What are you drinking?”
“Old-fashioned. You want one?” He plucks an orange from the bowl, already knowing my answer.
“If you’re making them, I can’t say no.”
I perch on the wooden barstool across from him, leaning forward with my elbows on the counter, and admire the way he muddles the sugar, citrus, and bitters—the way his forearms tense and tighten is like a performance all on its own.
“What kind of whiskey are we drinking tonight?”
He smirks, pulling the stopper from the glass decanter. “The good stuff.”
After pouring, Logan grips the orange in one hand while slicing the paring knife through the peel, forming a slow, precise spiral. He twists it over the glass, releasing the oils and dropping it into the smoky amber liquor.
“Beautiful.”
He slides the cocktail in front of me. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” I bring the drink to my lips, letting the warmth of the whiskey coat my tongue, savoring it as it rolls down my throat.It’s delicious.He seems satisfied by my appreciative sigh.
Setting my glass down, I arrange our food on the plates he laid out for us while he finishes wiping down the counter. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”
He raises a brow. “Forget to eat lunch again?”
“Hey, you’re guilty of it too.” It’s not uncommon for us to become caught up in our work once we begin. One of the many similarities we share.
We catch up on our days while devouring our burgers. His gaze seems to track my mouth between bites. It’s the same easy, casual conversation we’ve had a hundred times before, but now there’s a hum beneath it that quickens my pulse.
After dinner, I find myself staring at Logan as he preps the space, all six feet, four inches of quiet dominance. He adjusts one of the lights, dimming it to create a softer ambiance. He’s focused and controlled as he works. His calculating eyes are framed by those goddamn glasses that drive women wild—and I’m no exception.
While he sets up his camera and tests the lighting, I wander toward the giant windows, drawn to the towering buildings silhouetted by a technicolor sky. The cocktail in my hand expertly balances the ratio of smoke and citrus—the flavors lingering on my taste buds. With each sip, I grow more relaxed. As darkness falls over the city, it’s transformed into something magical, sparkling like a night sky.
He brushes up behind me, and I almost lean back into his broad chest. My cheeks heat with embarrassment when I realize he’s reaching for the open windows—not me. The temperature has dipped since the sun melted below the horizon.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm,” I answer, lowering my chin. I recall the other night when, for a split second, I thought he might kiss me. Between the wine and the breakup, I probably wouldn’t have stopped him; my emotions were all over the place. I shake away the intrusive thoughts and remind myself what I’m here to do.
“Where should I be?” Waiting for direction, I peel off my socks and toss them toward my shoes at the front door.
“First, I want you on the sofa,” he instructs, moving the coffee table out of the way. “Lay on your back.” His voice takes a deeper tone. I’ve teased him in the past that he should use his bossy voice around women more, it’s sexy. But at this moment, I’m glad he’s using it with me and not someone else.
I point to the left side of the firm leather sofa. “My head at this end?”
He nods while I get settled.
“So, what kind of mood are we going for?” I ask, letting down my hair from the ponytail. “Something somber? Some bleak chic?”
